"Drake, David - Redliners" - читать интересную книгу автора (Drake David)

rockets; a medical kit; two supplementary communication units;
two knives—one of them powered, the other with a shorter fixed
blade that could double as a climbing spike; and a packet of
emergency rations. The integral canteen of Farrell's back-and-
breast armor held two quarts of water, but he carried an additional
three gallons in a backpack. The weight slowed him and made his
armor sag brutally against his shoulders, but the cost was worth it
to him.

When you're pinned down in the hot sun, thirst is the worst torture.
Worse than the ripping pain of your wound, worse even than the
stench of your friend's half-burned corpse on the ground beside
you. Art Farrell knew.

The starship quivered, still twenty feet above the ground though
she was nearly in equilibrium with the field her generators had
induced in the magnetic mass on which she was landing. "Wait for
it!" ordered Captain Broz, C41's executive officer, over the
command channel.

Nadia Broz was following standard operating procedure, but on
this mission there wasn't any risk that a striker would unass early.
Normally C41 inserted aboard a purpose-built landing vessel. The
hatches opened minutes before contact. For Active Cloak
camouflage rather than speed was the requirement. At touchdown
the flight crew would blow explosive bolts to separate the outer
bulkheads from the skeleton of support members, but until then
the freighter's hold was sealed like a prison cell.

"Hey, I think I changed my mind," a striker called over the ship
noises. There was brittle laughter.

Kurt Leinsdorf stood stolidly at Farrell's shoulder as he always did
during an insertion. On C41's table of organization, Leinsdorf was
a communications specialist. In reality he was Farrell's bodyguard,
a huge, strong man who carried a single-shot plasma cannon in
addition to his other weapons and equipment.

"I wanna be a Strike Force ranger . . ." sang Horgen, a Third
Platoon striker. "I wanna live a life of danger . . ."

The starship sank the last few feet like a leaking bladder. Wait for
it, Farrell mouthed, but no sound passed his dry lips.

A locator chart overlaid the upper left quadrant of Farrell's visor:
seventy-eight green dots, each one a striker. They were crammed
too closely together at the moment for him to count them
individually. Every one was a veteran: not only of combat, but
veterans of C41 itself.